This is part of a short, three or four part short story that'll be featured on BrickStory.com. Enjoy.

"Twelve cameras."

The chap behind me didn't seem to understand, let alone that it was he whom I was addressing.

"Twelve cameras," I repeated, looking over my shoulder at him.

"Huh?" he grunted. Far as I can remember he was wearing a soccer jersey for the world cup final. He didn't play soccer, that was for sure; the size of his gut and multiple chins told me that much. I notice these things.

"Twelve cameras," I said again, pointing at the object of the one-sided conversation. "Why would anybody need twelve surveillance cameras? That's like one behind each teller's booth. I mean, really, why?"

After realizing that I had indeed been talking to him, he made the fact rudely obvious with a loud "Oh!" Somebody gave him a sharp glance.

"It's a bank, bro..." he said with exaggerated incredulity. I blinked.

"How very observant," I replied. He ignored the sarcasm.

"Keeps it from getting robbed, y'know?" His tone was as though he were addressing a child. Now it was my turn to not understand.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Well...." His voice trailed off.

"Why?" I repeated.

"Well... they'd see you. They'd report you."

"But that doesn't keep it from being robbed. I'd still have robbed it."

"They'd see you."

"What if I wore a mask?"

"I've seen you, man. I'd report you."

"What if I shot you?"

"You'd need a gun."

"What if I have a gun?"

The man paused again. I saw a tiny bit of apprehension in his eyes. "You..."

I laughed, but didn't say anything. That made him squirm a little, and, frankly, I enjoyed that.

"You don't... you don't have one..." he said, more as a statement than a question. "... Do you?"

The line was quite long, and it wasn't budging due to an obstinate American lady in a red sweater arguing with the clerk (a little chap with beady eyes and a hawk nose - clearly Jewish) about trading dollars for pounds. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this isn't the place to do it," he was trying to say. She thought otherwise, obviously, and was making it loudly known.

People from the line soon became impatient - including my not-soccer friend.

"Aye, come on lady," he said. "Pick on somebody yer own size!"

"I thought you Brits were pleasant; obviously, I'm mistaken!" she replied. I gave a dry chuckle.

"Ha! Welcome to London, ma'am," I interjected. She scowled. I don't take offence; I'm quite sure she meant people from London, not where I'm from.

After a while, she had finished and I did my banking. As the Jewish teller cashed my check, I made light conversation. (Note: At that point in time I was not what you would call 'sensitive'.)

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